First Contact, page 3
Three. The conn erupted in multicolored fireworks; sharp bits of debris flew past Worf’s face and eyes, stung his skin as he pitched forward against the deck. The ship was beginning to come apart, the Klingon realized grimly—but this was the Defiant, one of the finest, strongest warships in the fleet, designed to hold up against the deadliest onslaughts. If she could bear two more blows…
He managed another shaky step and flung himself toward Tutu’s console. Once there, he leaned face and chest against the control panel and hugged it tightly. The air surrounding him became acrid with smoke.
Four, five.
The Defiant lurched upward and back, like a boxer struck hard in the jaw. The impact lifted the Klingon off his feet on a back-and-up diagonal, then, as the ship righted itself with a jerk, slammed his cheek against the console again, tearing the skin. The rebound from the collision lifted him again—and at that instant, the final shock came, dashing him headfirst against the floor.
The blow to his head and chest left him momentarily stunned and breathless, and the fall had turned the cut on his cheek into a gash—or so he assumed from the warm, damp feel of blood trickling down his face. But the warrior’s fury in his heart obliterated all pain, all fear, and bade him rise to his feet.
So he did—slowly, one hand clutching the nearest console, which still rained sparks. To his relief, he did not hear the computer’s urgent voice warning of an imminent warp-core breach; but neither did he hear the expected drone of voices reporting the extent of the damage. The bridge itself seemed ominously silent, veiled in thick smoke that rendered the other bodies on the bridge—some lying still as death (and indeed, probably dead), some writhing in pain, others crawling back to their stations—unrecognizable. So it was that he growled at the nearest body, moving slowly on hands and knees: “Report!”
The voice that filtered through the haze belonged to Kizilbash; as she spoke, she neared, her cropped, dark hair and features becoming gradually more visible, and pulled herself up into her chair. “Main power is offline!” she exclaimed, clearly struggling not to cough. “We’ve lost shields and our weapons are gone!”
Worf paused the length of a single breath, no more. “Then perhaps today… is a good day to die.” He sought Kizilbash’s gaze through the stinging smoke and found an unflinching determination there that filled him with pride. “Ramming speed!”
Kizilbash moved toward Tutu’s console, prepared to comply, but something she saw there made her instead glance up at her commander. “Sir,” she said, her voice sharp with surprise, “there’s another starship coming in. It’s the Enterprise!”
* * *
In the flashing crimson glow of the red alert, Picard sat in his new captain’s chair and watched as the Enterprise-E’s powerful phasers found their target: the scarred, blackened surface of the Borg cube. Its lifeless, featureless gray metal was briefly illumined before instantly darkening again, as the phasers gouged a great smoldering ravine in its hull.
Against the sinister backdrop of the monstrous vessel, the battered Defiant drifted, clearly helpless. Another onslaught would surely destroy her and all aboard. The remaining Federation ships hovered about the cube, clearly contemplating their strategies.
But as Picard had known it would, the Enterprise’s attack immediately drew the enemy’s fire away from the crippled warship. The Borg in turn unleashed a retaliatory barrage—one that, the captain noted with pride, the new ship absorbed with the faintest of shudders. She had not yet been tested in an actual battle; but thus far, Picard was already impressed.
Riker glanced up from his station, slightly lower than and flanking the captain’s. “The Defiant’s losing life support.”
Without pause, Picard spoke to the comm, returning his gaze to the viewscreen. “Bridge to transporter room three. Beam the Defiant survivors aboard.”
Riker’s voice again, this time pitched ever so slightly higher: “Captain, the flagship’s been destroyed.”
Picard did not look at his second-in-command as another blast caused the chair under him to vibrate, but instead kept his eyes focused on the screen. “What’s the status on the Borg cube?”
The question was addressed to Data, whose voice relayed an undercurrent of excitement. “It has sustained heavy damage on its outer hull. I am reading fluctuations in their power grid.”
In the millisecond before the android replied, Picard realized that he inexplicably knew—knew—the information he had requested, for his question had already been answered by a whisper in his own head—a voice that was one, yet many; a voice that evoked the ghost of a half-remembered feminine face.
Without thinking, he rose, entranced, and moved toward the viewscreen where the image of the massive and unlovely vessel hung. They were there; he could sense them, hear them speak. For an instant, he felt as though he had only to reach toward the screen, and he would touch them.
The whisper of the one and the multitude grew briefly louder.
…critical damage to shields at power sector one-one-one. All drones coordinate repair immediately.…
The mental whisper died abruptly, as if the speakers had realized he was listening. But it was too late; he had already experienced a revelation beyond the mere words he had detected.
They were wounded. They were vulnerable, and he knew beyond all reason the precise spot.
He wheeled toward Riker. “Number One, open a channel to the other Starfleet vessels.”
Riker complied, but Picard caught the fleeting expression of curiosity on his first officer’s face and on the faces of those surrounding him. The awe he felt at his revelation must have been clear, but he did not, could not, take the time to explain. The window of the Borg’s vulnerability would soon close.
He moved swiftly to Data’s console and fingered the weapons control while the android watched in frank amazement.
By then, the channel to the remaining warships was open, and he spoke without delay. “This is Captain Picard of the Enterprise. I’m taking command of the fleet. Target every weapon you have on the following coordinates… and fire on my command.”
Data stared down at the coordinates Picard had just entered, then looked up at him with a worried frown. “Captain, the coordinates you have indicated do not appear to be a vital system.”
“Trust me, Data.” He stared straight ahead at the viewscreen, already seeing in his mind’s eye the Borg’s dazzling fate and experiencing a decidedly unaltruistic sensation at the image.
“The fleet’s ready,” Riker reported behind him, and as he uttered the last word, Picard was already giving the order to the remaining starships.
“Fire.”
Picard would not turn away from the screen, though the light was of such magnitude that he was forced to close his eyes. Even then, the brightness was painful—and when he opened them again, the yellow afterimage left him partially blinded for a few seconds.
But he could see enough to know that the Borg cube had dissolved into hurtling debris beneath the combined firepower of the Federation vessels. The explosion caused the deck beneath his feet to shudder.
Oddly, the sight brought little comfort—a mystifying reaction until he saw, emerging from the flying dust and shrapnel, a smaller vessel. Not a cube but a sphere, with the same Borg disregard for aesthetics as its predecessor, the same peculiarly unappealing leaden color, the same honeycomb design with exposed circuitry and tubing.
The sphere flew past the assembled starships directly toward Earth.
“Pursuit course. Engage,” Picard said as he returned to his chair. As he settled into it, the reality of what had just happened struck home; he let go a silent, troubled sigh.
So he was still tied, to some degree, to the Borg. Had Starfleet been right? Would this—at some point—make him a danger to those he wished to protect?
Yet in this instance, he had been quite the opposite; he had saved the Defiant survivors, and his intuitive knowledge had permitted him to win at least this one battle. The connection had not been two-way; the Borg had clearly not known he was about to destroy their ship.
Or had they?
Deanna Troi clearly sensed his turmoil. She moved toward him and asked softly, “What?”
I heard them, Picard thought in reply; but the notion was too unsettling, too horrific to give voice to, and so he answered not at all.
Troi’s black eyes narrowed with concern; she parted her lips to speak, but before the words could come, the turbolift doors opened to reveal Beverly Crusher.
She stepped onto the bridge, her expression businesslike, yet edged with a faint mirth Picard could not understand—until he saw who stood beside her. “I have a patient here who insisted on coming to the bridge,” she said, with feigned disapproval.
And she turned to smile at her companion: Worf. The Klingon’s uniform was torn and bloodied, his deep brown face further darkened by soot, save for a patch Crusher had no doubt cleaned and bandaged. But his stance was straight and strong as it had been the last time Picard saw him, and his eyes as clear and fierce.
Picard did not smile at him; the situation was too grim for that. But he did not suppress the honest affection in his voice. “Welcome to the Enterprise-E, Mr. Worf.”
“Thank you, sir,” Worf said sincerely. His tone became abruptly concerned. “The Defiant…?”
Picard understood the question very well; he knew the grief of losing a ship. So it was with pleasure that he told the Klingon, “Adrift… but salvageable.”
“Tough little ship,” Riker interjected. Worf snarled, revealing a glimpse of particularly fearsome-looking, yellowed teeth.
“Little?”
Will smiled, rightly interpreting the display as good humored.
“We could use some help at tactical, Worf,” Picard said, noting how much they had all missed the Klingon; Troi and Data were both grinning broadly at Worf, and the captain himself was on the verge of doing so. But he could not—not yet.
Not even when Riker followed the Klingon over to tactical. When Worf relieved the young ensign there and immediately began familiarizing himself with the new console, Will leaned over him and asked, sotto voce, “You do remember how to fire phasers?”
Worf glanced up, his expression one of perfect innocence. “It is the green button, right?”
Riker snickered. It seemed, Picard reflected, that the Klingon’s interaction with those on Deep Space 9 had definitely honed his sense of humor.
Still, the captain could not smile; not yet. Though he no longer heard the voice of the Borg, he could sense them, and knew: defeat was too near. As near as the planet Earth.
* * *
And all too soon, the Enterprise viewscreen revealed the marbled blue-white sphere of Earth—and a second smaller, more sinister sphere that dove swiftly toward her.
“Captain,” Data said sharply, scowling down at his monitor, “sensors show high concentrations of tachyons… and chronometric particles emanating from the sphere.…”
He looked at Picard, who now stood beside him, studying the monitor. The captain glanced at the information for the space of a second, no more, then stared up in wonder at the viewscreen, where the Borg vessel began to glow scarlet in the upper reaches of Earth’s atmosphere.
With the same sudden certainty that had seized him earlier, Picard knew, and had no need to consult readouts. In a whisper, he said, “They’re creating a temporal vortex.”
“Time travel,” Riker echoed, his tone laced with horror.
Picard did not reply, but merely stared along with his stunned crew as, ahead of the Borg sphere, a tunnel of blazing, writhing energy and light opened.
The sphere flew directly into the heart of the brilliant maelstrom, displacing a wave of crackling energy that surged outward, enveloping the Enterprise.
The deck beneath Picard’s feet convulsed; this time he looked away from the blinding splendor on the viewscreen. Thunder roared in his ears, muffling Riker’s shout: “We’re caught in some kind of temporal wake!”
The worst of it swept over them; and then, gradually, the light and the ship’s trembling subsided.
He permitted himself a sigh at the realization that the wake had not killed them, but he knew the worst had not yet begun.
Nearby, Worf called, his tone stricken: “Captain! The Earth…”
On the screen, the energy wake had begun to dissipate, revealing the Earth. Or rather, the Earth changed, for any trace of blue or white or any other lush, rich color that Jean-Luc Picard associated with his native planet was entirely gone. The atmosphere was now storm-swirled, turbulent, dark.
A darkness that was colorless, lifeless, beautyless.
Leaden, Picard thought—and then could scarcely draw the next breath. He gazed again at the glowing vortex, still open—and within, the sapphire jewel of the true Earth.
“The atmosphere contains high concentrations of methane, carbon monoxide, and fluorine,” Data announced.
With dread, the captain asked, “Life signs?”
Data again consulted his console. “Population… approximately nine billion.” He looked up at his superior, his pale, iridescent face perfectly slack, apparently calm; yet in his amber eyes shone depthless horror. “All Borg.”
Through an act of pure will, Picard managed to continue breathing, to force his dazed mind to think. But several seconds passed before anyone could speak.
“But how?” Troi demanded at last. Her question served to galvanize the others.
“They must have done it in the past,” Picard reasoned. “They went back and assimilated Earth. Changed history…”
“But if they changed history, why are we still here?” Crusher challenged.
Picard was on the verge of replying when Data answered instead. “The temporal wake must have protected us from changes in the timeline.”
As the android spoke, an alarm on his console beeped. He glanced down, then said, “The vortex is collapsing.”
Picard hesitated not a heartbeat; any other decision would have been violently unacceptable. “Data, hold your course. We have to follow them back, repair whatever damage they’ve done.”
Data immediately began working his console. No one on the bridge spoke or even stirred; the loss of one’s present and future, Picard realized, was far too stunning to permit reaction. So stunning, indeed, that he had lost all sense of connection to the Borg. Where they were headed, what they planned, he could not say.
In silence, the Enterprise-E hurtled straight ahead, into the blinding brilliance, into the past.
FOUR
The air was close in the old Crash & Burn, stale and unpleasant, filled with the scent of sour sweat, moonshine, and smoke. It was the smell, Lily decided, that had caused her headache. That and the two shots of brain-numbing, vile-tasting swill that passed for the local liquor… and the fact that Zef had himself had ten shots and was beginning to slur again.
Or maybe it was simply the fear.
Whatever it was, she had grown suddenly furious, seized Zef’s arm, and pulled him off his barstool and out of the tattered olive-drab tent into the freezing night. He’d been just drunk enough to go with her (fortunately, not so drunk as to be combative), and she paused a few steps away from the bar and filled her lungs with fresh air. The first breath was bracing; the second, bitterly cold.
She swore softly. It was April, all right, but this sure as hell wasn’t Paris.
“Lily, c’mon,” Zef pleaded. He was in one of his manic moods tonight, a rather charming one, his cheeks flushed bright pink from liquor and cold, his eyes bright. Combined with his nicely silvering hair, they made him look younger, more handsome, than she’d ever seen him; for a moment, he looked like a boy instead of a worn, fifty-year-old man. It wasn’t just the booze, Lily knew; it was the excitement, the anticipation of tomorrow. “We’re celebrating, remember?”
“We can celebrate when it’s over,” she said curtly, making her way cautiously around the larger mud puddles, which were capped by a layer of frosted ice. Zef followed alongside, arms out, pleading.
“Lily…”
“You’re going to regret this.” She kept her expression hard and began walking faster.
He tried to keep up with her, but between the booze and the icy patches, he caught the edge of a mud puddle with his heel and almost slipped. She slowed, grabbed him, and wound an arm firmly around his waist.
He grinned. “If there’s one thing you should’ve learned about me by now, young lady, it’s that I have no regrets.”
Right, she thought bitterly. Like I have none. Everyone, everything we ever loved is dead and the world’s a mess, but we don’t care, do we?
Zef stopped suddenly and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Come on, Lily. One more round.” He moved to turn back, but she forged straight ahead, jaw set.
“You’ve had enough,” she told him. “I’m not riding in that thing tomorrow with a drunken pilot.” As she spoke, she wondered why she was so angry about the upcoming launch.
Because it might not work, that’s why. Because after all the tears and sweat he and I have put into it, it might just be a miserable flop.
Because, for the first time in ten years, something came along that made me dare hope… and if it fails… If it fails, there really won’t be any reason left to feel optimistic about anything.
And I don’t think I can go back to living that way again.
It was hard, after ten years—a whole third of her existence—to remember much about life before the war. Or maybe it was just that remembering hurt too much, so she did her best to forget the details. But she couldn’t forget the university; it seemed now like a dream, a beautiful place that couldn’t really have existed because it was simply too wonderful. If she’d only known, when she was there, that it was an ephemeral phenomenon, impermanent, she would have treasured it more. All the math and physics classes that she secretly adored while complaining vocally about them…
